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Remembering my BFF today who passed away four year ago today. She was a real character. Aughe, I miss you.

Excerpt from: The Passion Prerogative

My dog, Aughe, has a passion for cookies, a.k.a, dog biscuits, dog treats and dog snacks. A 15-year-old Golden Retriever mix whose muzzle has turned white and back legs have grown weak, Aughe still remains laser-focused on finagling as many of her favorite mouth-watering morsels that she can get each day. I’m starting to think cookies are the main reason she bothers to get out of bed in the morning.

My decade and a half with Augie has silently slipped through my fingers, like a thief in the night stealing my treasure bit by bit. The antics of my squirrel-chasing, trash-digging, bed-surfing companion have slowly transformed into lazy days filled with long still naps punctuated by moments of clever ruses designed to get me to the cookie jar one more time.

I can’t say I miss her trash-digging days, those occasions when she nosed the cupboard door open in the wee hours of the morning, gently tugged the trashcan into the floor, and proceeded to rummaged through it looking for a little snack to tide her over until breakfast. Waking up to find yourself ankle deep in shredded trash covered in wet coffee grounds and worse can make even the most devoted pet parent question her adoption decision. But Aughe’s look of total innocence always amused me, so I was quick to forgive her transgressions.

400 Words

From the hallowed halls of Oxford University comes Spoonerism Day.

July is jammed with holidays. We started the month with World UFO Day. Then we raced into Independence Day, National Kissing Day, National Nude Day, and Yellow Pig Day. (The presidential candidate who will declare a three-day holiday weekend for all of these great celebrations has my vote) Today is Spoonerism Day, a favorite of my logophile friends and me.

For you neophytes who are eager to get in on the fun, I offer this brief explanation:

Spoonerisms are phrases, sentences or words with swapped sounds. Usually this happens by accident, particularly if a person is speaking quickly. Spoonerisms are phonetic transposition, but are not limited to the transposition of individual sounds. Whole words or large parts of words may be swapped. The term and the holiday are named for the famous Oxford professor, William Archibald Spooner (1844 – 1930), who was notoriously prone to mixing up sounds.

Is it kisstomary to cuss the bride? (Is it customary to kiss the bride?)

The Lord is a shoving leopard. (The Lord is a loving shepherd.)

Cuss and kiddle. (Kiss and cuddle.)

Doc in Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was prone to spoonerisms. “Search every crook and nanny!” he once pronounced.

I specifically remember one evening when my son, Beau was three years old. As we were driving, my husband and I were discussing different restaurants we might try in our new hometown. From the backseat came, “Let’s go to Kenfucky Tried Chicken!” Out of the mouths of babes.

I do have a favorite spoonerism. The story goes something like this: A few years ago, my sister Mel and her husband Teddy retired and moved to the community of Murfreesboro, Tenn. They rented a place, as it was their plan to build their dream house. One day while on their search for the perfect lot, my sister was driving while Teddy studied the map and gave instructions on how to get to their next destination. “Go to the light and turn right onto the Old Fart Porkway,” he instructed. Needless to say, Mel fell apart laughing. To this day, the entire family refers to Murfreesboro’s Old Fort Parkway as the Old Fart Porkway.

To celebrate Spoonerism Day, switch your sounds around as much as possible. And if you want to spoon with your favorite mate, that’s OK, too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and shake a tower.

What is Yellow Pig Day? If you are to believe Wikipedia, which of course, I am, Yellow Pig Day originated in the early 1960s when two Princeton math students, Michael Spivak and David C. Kelly, spent hours obsessively analyzing the number 17. Probably because the lack of sleep caused the two to go temporarily guano loco*, they invented (or more likely, hallucinated) the 17-toed, 17-teethed, 17-eyelashed, 17-etc. yellow pig. As is usually the case with college students, (yes even geeky mathematicians) a party was born. Now Yellow Pig Day is an important part of the academic calendar, and is celebrated with cake, carols, parades and general revelry.

Today is National Nude Day!

No nude sunbathing? Where’s the fun in that?

For the record…I’m out. The festivities for National Nude Day will have to proceed without me. Let’s just say my precarious relationship with my archenemy, Aging, has left me feeling…well, vulnerable, with all my loose parts and stray appendages prone to getting caught in slamming doors, closing windows and heavy machinery if not properly corralled. I am the first to admit it…this glorious 50+-year-old package now requires the elaborate gift-wrapping that is clothing.

Before Aging had her way with me (in more ways than one), I was already a bit squeamish about letting it all hang out due to a genetic defect from my paternal side of the family. According to my mother, who had no reason to make things up, in four and a half decades of marriage to my sainted father, she never once saw him buck-naked. (Thus the “sainted” part.) I suspect that through the years Mother sneaked the occasional snips and glimpses of those things my father kept under wraps. Engaging her vivid imagination, I have no doubt she had a pretty good idea what the entire parcel that was my father looked like.

I hope everyone enjoys National Nude Day. As for me, I won’t be the one mooning the server at the window of the local Burger King. I’ll leave that to you.

I interrupt this diatribe of side-splitting humor to bring you this important announcement. It’s World UFO Day! Hip, hip hooray! I don’t know about you, but I’m all in. Remember that the Drake Equation…which I think we all learned in the third grad…scientifically estimates the number of technological civilizations that might exist among the stars (N = R* • fp • ne • fl • fi • fc • L) That number is really, really big.

It’s not too late to plan a great movie night with family and/or friends featuring your fav UFO/space alien movie. I’m doing a showing of “K-Pax,” a 2009 way above average motion picture starring Kevin Spacey, Jeff Bridges and Mary McCormack. (I love Spacey, Bridges and McCormack.) As my World UFO Day encore presentation, I’ve selected the classic version (1951) of “The Day the Earth Stood Still.” The movie jacket reads: “An alien lands and tells the people of Earth that they must live peacefully or be destroyed as a danger to other planets.” Kind of makes me wish this particular alien would land as soon as possible. Check out all the fun at www.worldufoday.com. And remember…the truth is out there.

“For your information, this is a 100 percent Corinthian leather Waist-all® designed specifically for the woman on the go,” I pronounced boldly. “This happens to be high fashion this season, along with slightly lower hemlines, and hot electric colors. Haven’t you been paying attention to what’s coming out of New York and Paris this season?”

“No, but I’m betting it’s not that,” he growled.

“That’s how little you know,” I shot back before stomping out the front door, Waist-all® securely in place.

In truth, I had recently embarked on a one-woman campaign to thrust this comfortable and convenient purse-like item into the realm of high fashion. After spotting a young lady downtown wearing a chartreuse and black dress, accentuated by puffy chartreuse and black hair, a pair of bright orange stocking, and a pair of scuffed combat boots, I was inspired to dig out my old fanny pack (a gift from my father) from the depths of my closet and to scheme up a fashion statement of my own.

Stephen might think these little wonders are ugly, but the reality is that when they’re packed properly they provide the female form an eye-popping new dimension. When my husband sees Jennifer Lopez sporting a trendy Waist-all®, I’m sure he’ll have a change of heart.

Then again, my sense of realty has been a little out of kilter since Richardo Montalbán was ousted from “Fantasy Island.”

How could Jen, or any woman for that matter, not want one of these modern-day marvels? This snappy accessory puts everything you need right at your fingertips: money, credit card, debit card, Starbucks card, library card, driver’s license, lipstick, cell phone, and keys. The benefits are countless. Now that you’re not schlepping a big purse, you can really get the blood flowing as you walk (improved health). You can carry more books from the library (improved education). And with both hands free, you can even make more demonstrative hand gestures to the idiot drivers (improved communication).

For centuries, men have been free to talk with both hands, while women have been limited to one-handed expression because their other hand always had a death grip on the stupid over-sized pocketbook slung over their sore shoulders. Subtle oppression is always the hardest to overcome. I think it’s time Jen and I stepped out and strutted a little function over form on behalf of women everywhere. Won’t you join us?

The line moved rapidly and my sister and I soon stood behind the yellow line awaiting our turn on the loading platform. As the coaster ahead of us departed, I gently tugged my sister into position for the last car. Some coaster connoisseurs mistakenly believe the first car is the most exciting. But I, a coaster expert in my own right, know the last car is by far the most chilling. That sense of being pulled off the edge, maybe kicking, definitely screaming, that extra bolt of adrenaline hitting the bloodstream as you watch everyone in front of you crest the big hill and disappear on a wave of screams, just does the body good.

A young couple eyed our spot jealously, then smiled and took the position in front of us to await the ‘cane’s return. A warm breeze gusted across the platform as the coaster rattled its way through a series of hills and curves, carrying with it the laughter and screams of its passengers. Then a second breeze and I felt my knees weaken. I did a 180 degree spin on my heels and grasped the bar behind me.

As I stood there, struggling to stay upright, I was reminded of my recent dinner – one Pronto Pup (aka corndog) with mustard, two tacos, and an elephant ear topped off with an orange slush and a SMALL tropical fruit Dippin’ Dots. Strangely, this was not a fond memory.

Just as I stabilized, my sister, in an almost identical replica of the fancy maneuver I had executed a moment before, spun around and grasped the bar I clung to.

“That man in front of us hasn’t had a bath in a least a week,” she whispered.

“I think it’s been closer to a month,” I replied.

As the coaster rumbled to a stop beside us, and the giggling gaggle of passengers unloaded, I heard my sister’s whining, choked voice say, “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to ride. Let’s just pray he’s a white-knuckler,” I said as we climbed in.

Unfortunately, the young man in front of me was anything BUT a white-knuckler. Before the coaster had even left the platform, he had his arms raised, slightly bent at the elbows and was flapping them like a chicken. Did I mention he wore a sleeveless muscle shirt? You could literally see the putrid smell just before it hit you in the face.

Just two feet behind him, my sister and I were hunkered down below breeze level, fighting for a place out of the danger zone. Then we were off. He flapped…we ducked. We tried breathing through our mouths, but the bug factor convinced us otherwise. By the time we slowed through the final curve back to the platform, we were laughing hysterically at our predicament. I then realized it was the first time since my Dad’s departure that my soul had laughed. I owed the young muscle man a debt of gratitude.

As my sister and I climbed down from the platform, having paused long enough to avoid a decent directly behind our riding companion, I heard my dad once again whisper sweet reassuring works in my ear.

Every summer I return to the beloved homeland of my forefathers that lies just south of Monticello. For the record, that’s Monticello, Indiana. A Buckeye by birth and a Clemson Tiger by choice, I’m plagued with dominant Hoosier genes that sound the siren that lures me north to a gathering of the family faithful at the advent of every cantaloupe season. Hoosiers like to eat.

Because my mother was an Indiana native, the summers of my youth always included a stay at Indiana Beach, a “resort” of sorts located on beautiful Lake Shafer. It has everything a kid could want…amusement rides, cabins and camping, miniature golf, a game room, and yes, a beach. It’s a place where the aroma of green tomatoes still in the fields, of corn silk and pig manure collide with the heady smells of county fair-style food. Yum!

The summer after my father died, our enthusiasm for the beach waned. Although I was still overwhelmed by the grief of losing him, I nudged a group into making the trip because “it’s what Dad would have wanted.”

Adjusting to the beach without Dad was difficult, but as a tribute to him my sister and I decided to ride the Hoosier Hurricane, a roller-coaster he rode when he was 79 years old.

As we climbed the stairs to the platform, I remembered the first time I rode a rollercoaster was with Dad when I was eight. As we locked in and began our climb up the first big hill, he leaned nearer to me and whispered sweet reassuring words in my ear. “You’re going to be just fine,” he said. I was.

Not this kind of thongs, though in hind-sight (pun intended) I wish it had been.

It was a beautiful-mid-June day. After a pleasant drive with my car windows down, I entered my favorite discount department store, grabbed a shopping buggy and skillfully wheeled it into the candy aisle. Pleased that I was able to limit myself to just two bags of delicious chocolate chewiness, I decided to spend a few minutes “browsing,” which is, according to the authoritative Roget’s Thesaurus, synonymous with “exercising.” Look it up if you don’t believe me.

I hit all my favorite departments…electronics, automotive, sporting goods…picking up a few non-essentials along the way while being completely cognizant of the fact that my testosterone-enriched home environment could use a good airing out. Making my way across the back of the store, I turned up the main aisle and headed toward the checkout counter. About halfway up the aisle something caught my eye. There hugging the women’s lingerie department next to the store’s main thoroughfare was a new display rack filled with lacy thongs.

Not sure if I was just feeling plucky or if my blood sugar was plummeting, I paused to examine the “goods” without so much as a single regard for the store’s security cameras or to sufficiently weigh the odds of running into someone I knew.